


You'll Be Okay. Anyway.

by little_murmaider



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Band Mom Pickles, Compulsive cleaning to stave off guilt, Gen, M/M, Post Season 4, Pre-Doomstar Requiem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_murmaider/pseuds/little_murmaider
Summary: Pickles developed a new compulsion since Toki went missing. At least he's not alone.





	

Since Toki went missing, Pickles developed a new compulsion. Whenever he was in the vicinity of his bandmate’s quarters, he just _had to_ go inside.  
  
It had been too easy to get lost in the fog of booze and drugs and women, to detach from the reason why he and the others had been leaning on those vices so heavily. Seeing the space gave his brain a hard reset, kickstarted an old habit. As a kid he would complete his (and most of Seth’s) household chores with a workhorse efficiency--an unsuccessful attempt to curry favor with his parents. The work quelled his anxiety when booze proved insufficient. It was a tick he never grew out of, the unannounced spasm of OCD bursting through moments of high-stress. (Nathan loved to mock him for this, said he was realizing his _true form_ as Band Mom. But Nathan was also content to keep his mouth shut while Pickles alphabetized his medieval weaponry collection, so what the actual fuck was he yapping about?)  
  
Creating little projects for himself made him feel, if not _better_ , at least _slightly less awful_. Which was the best he could hope for, these days. So he came in here, and he kept finding things to do. He refolded every article of clothing so all the dresser drawers closed properly. He categorized unboxed model sets by vehicle type, material, year and serial number. He re-bladed the X-Acto knives and used the dull razors to scrape spidery dried glue off the desktop. He ignored, as weeks went on, that he was running out of tasks.  
  
Had he been left alone in that room with that thought, he might have come unhinged. But he was never alone.  
  
The first time he stumbled upon Skwisgaar, he pretended his arrival was an inebriation-fueled mistake. It was a flimsy excuse, and an unnecessary one. Skwisgaar didn’t make noise about Pickles’ presence. Skwisgaar didn’t make noise about anything. He sat, zombified, as Pickles made small talk at nothing, fussing over arrangement of Toki’s cologne bottles. Only once did Pickles snap him out of his daze. Glancing at the guitar shunted in the far corner, Pickles made an off-hand comment about the instrument needing a tuning. Skwisgaar _woke the fuck up_ , barked if Pickles touched that guitar he would _break every single one of his fingers_ , and that was the end of that. He was content to co-exist, in amiable silence.  
  
Pickles once watched a movie about a woman so broken-hearted, she became rooted to a single place. Literally rooted; the earth grew up around her, her grief manifesting as moss and soil and bark. The image of that woman returned each time he saw Skwisgaar in this room, thousand-yard stare locked on a point indeterminable. Pickles wasn’t sure why. Probably because they were both blonde.  
  
That evening he found Skwisgaar in his preferred perch on Toki’s bed. Even with his back to the wall, his lanky legs draped over the edge of the bed. Instead of looking forward, as usual, Skwisgaar’s gaze was cast downward. Resting on his thighs was Toki’s stuffed bear. Skwisgaar picked small pieces of fuzz from the fabric like a chimp seeking insects on a companion’s back. Pickles had hoped to make some headway on the calcium buildup growing in Toki’s shower, but the sight of Skwisgaar struck a chord in him A loud one.  
  
“You been ehhhhhhhh, spendin’ a lahtta time in here, huh pal?”  
  
Skwisgaar responded with a brief, neutral hum.  
  
“Mind if I hang out here a while?”  
  
Skwisgaar scoffed. “I don’ts care.”  
  
Pickles crossed the room and flopped beside him. Skwisgaar was testy about personal space, so as Pickles crossed his legs he left enough of a gap between their bodies for plausible deniability. He glimpsed down at the bear on Skwisgaar’s legs, and chuckled.  
  
“Heh. Leave it ta Toki ta want somethin’ to be cute and threatenin’.” He flicked at the creature’s coiled tail. “Where’d he even get this thing anyway?”  
  
“Mes.”  
  
Pickles balked. “Come again? Ahm a lil’ deaf in this ear.”  
  
Skwisgaar nodded tersely. “Longs time agos.”  
  
Pickles resettled against the wall, his knee grazing Skwisgaar’s hip.  
  
“He didn'ts knows it was mes.” Skwisgaar continued. “Pretty sure he thought it ams Nathans or Offdensen. Dats fine. Better, acktuallies. I nevers wanted him to t’inks I was softs. Or.”  
  
He paused. His thumb skimmed the creature’s ear.  
  
“Dats he mades me softs.”  
  
Pickles desperately wished for a drink. Had he been hammered, he might not have noticed Skwisgaar spoke of Toki in past tense.  
  
A pained noise splintered the lull, like air escaping a balloon. Pickles didn’t have to look up to know what it was.  
  
“Skwisgaar…”  
  
“Ams not’ings--”  
  
“Don’t…”  
  
“Ams just, super highs! Ams alls!”  
  
He clutched the bear in a vice grip. His eyes screwed shut tight, tears dribbling off his jaw and the end of his nose. He shook his head to let his hair fall in front of his face--his tell, whenever he was upset.  
  
“I dids, likes, so many drugs, dood!” His voice clawed at the top of his register. “All de drugs I could finds! Dats why I’m so highs, ha ha! Just sos, sos fucking high, mans.”  
  
This room, and the feelings within it, felt divorced from the aloof disengagement that met him on all fronts in the outside world. In here he didn’t feel suffocated beneath the weight of apathy. In here Pickles was comfortable snaking an arm around Skwisgaar and drawing him in. In here Skwisgaar didn’t hesitate to tuck his head into Pickles’ shoulder when wordlessly prompted.  
  
“De most highs...I ever beens…”  
  
“Yeeh, I know, pal.”  
  
“In my lifes…”  
  
Pickles pushed aside hair that had cemented to wet cheeks. “Tell me about alla drugs ya did.’  
  
“Oh. Jeez. Uhhhhh hards to remembers...cause I dids, so...manys…”  
  
“Hey, did I ever tell ya about tha time I dropped so much acid, I almost bluffed my way onto tha Innerneetional Space Station?”  
  
“Ja.”  
  
“D’ya wanna hear it again?”  
  
“Ja. Okays.”  
  
As Pickles wove his tale--embellishing for dramatic emphasis of course--Skwisgaar pulled the bear into himself, until it was secure to his chest. Pickles let his hand find a place against Skwisgaar’s temple. It was enough. For now, it had to be.


End file.
